


Postage Due

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Times, Holiday: Christmas, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Romance, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair loses a dear friend just before Christmas, and it's up to Jim to help him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postage Due

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Sentinel Fanfic. And this story is dedicated to my own Tim...May 10, 1969 - December 4, 1996. May you find the peace in God's arms that you could never find in mine. I love you, Tim. And I regret every day that I never told you.

## Postage Due

by RedWolf

Author's disclaimer: Not mine...don't I wish. Theirs. No money made...check my bank account if you don't believe me.

* * *

Postage Due  
By RedWolf  
RedWolf&Jaguar@2die4.com 

November 21 

"That's everything, Chief?" Jim glanced over at his partner as the younger man scrambled up into the cab of the truck, slammed the door, and reached to buckle himself in. Jim smiled slightly at Blair's condescending glare. 

"Yes, Mom. And everything's strapped in good and tight too." 

Jim huffed. "It'd better be strapped down, considering how much it all cost. A hundred and fifty dollars, Chief! For one meal!" 

"Hey, it's not for just _one_ meal. Most of that stuff is to re-stock our larder. Besides, cooking dinner for the gang working at the station on Thanksgiving was your idea, man. Remember our deal? I cook. You pay. An you've got lean-up duty too." 

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Chief." 

"I do all the hard work and you pick up the tab...along with the credit too, I'm sure." Blair grinned cheekily at him. 

Jim just looked at him, no longer really listening to what Blair was saying, just...starring. He'd been doing more and more of that lately, ever since he'd become Jim's "official" partner. Jim rolled the words around in his mind, testing them for flavor. Detective Sandburg. Not Doctor. Detective. Weird. 

Blair was rubbing furiously at his numb fingers, having lost his gloves again. Jim suddenly had the crazy desire to add a set of mittens on a string to the growing list of Blair's Christmas gifts that he was keeping in his head. He grinned at the image of Blair running down a perp, with mittens flying behind his head, damn near choking himself on the string, then using them to restrain said suspect. //Oh yeah. I'm good and deep into the "Sandburg Zone" now.// 

Jim went back to starring at his partner again. True to his word, Blair _hadn't_ cut his hair. Oh sure, Jim had him going there for a while, damn near convincing the kid that a buzz cut would be the first "Police Academy Torture" he'd have to endure. 

Jim's grin widened. Sandburg was so pissed off, after worrying about his hair for so long, that after his first day, he'd come back to the loft and practically slugged his roommate, ranting all the while that he should have _known_ that Jim was intentionally trying to freak him out. 'Cause if buzz cuts were the norm, wouldn't the female cadets have to cut their hair too? And there was no way that any self-respecting perp would keep from laughing himself sick while being apprehended by a Susan Powder look-alike in a uniform! That comparison had Jim laughing until his sides ached. 

A small sound from his partner wrenched Ellison away from memory lane and drew his focus back on the man at his side. Electrified curls wrestled between framing his face and attacking it. But as glorious as Jim thought his friend's curls were, the hair was _not_ what captured Jim's attention. It was Sandburg's mouth. 

Blair was now blowing on his frozen fingers, cupping them only scant inches away from his mouth. Against his own volition, Jim dialed up his sight, zooming in on those delectable lips. Automatically, hearing and smell went with it. A minuscule hitch in breath....a slight pucker...a long, sensuous exhale....warm, spicy breath warming the numb digits. Jim was captivated. Breathe...pucker...exhale. Breathe...pucker...exhale. 

Covertly watching Jim out of the corner of his eye, Blair fought back a grin, seeing Jim watching him warm his hands. 

Breathe...pucker...exhale. 

Blair had been aware of Jim "checking him out" more frequently lately, and was delighted by it. He'd fallen hard for his partner some time ago, but knowing that Jim was practically the poster boy for repression and denial, Blair refused to make the first move. 

Breathe...pucker...exhale. 

Yep. He knew he was Jim's for the taking, but Jim would have to initiate it. No reason to make it easy on the guy. Especially after all of those table-leg comments. Lost in his thoughts, it took Blair a moment to realize that Jim had zoned. He reached over and laid a hand on Jim's arm. 

Breathe...pucker...exhale. Breathe...pucker...entranced, Jim blinked slowly, realizing that those lips were now facing him...and moving....but not in the same pattern as before. Jim blinked again, "Huh?" Blair's smile nearly blinded him. 

"Earth to Ellison. Come in, Jim." 

Jim shook his head, groggily. //Ah, shit. I can't believe I did that. Fucking zoning on Sandburg. How in the hell do I explain that? Jesus Christ.// 

"You back with me now, man?" Blair knew that Jim expected him to ask what had triggered the zone. But seeing where Jim's eyes were focused on when he came out of it, Blair didn't need to ask. He knew, and loved it. 

"Uh...yeah...I guess..." 

Blair interrupted with an exaggerated shiver. "I don't know about you, man. But I'm fucking freezing in here. Crank up the heat, will ya?" 

Jim started the truck, and turned up the heat as requested. Easing the pick-up out of the parking lot, and into the late afternoon traffic, Jim steered them towards home, steeling himself for the barrage of questions that always followed a zone-out. 

But Blair surprised him. "Any objections to some tunes, man?" 

Jim mentally leaped at the idea. Anything to postpone the inevitable. "Uh...no. Go ahead." 

With a smug smile, Blair switched on the radio, and began scanning the stations. He stopped short as the soothing sounds of James Taylor's "You've Got A Friend" filled the cab of the truck. Blair leaned back against the seat, his smile now brilliant, but for an entirely different reason. 

"Looks like I'll be on the phone tonight." 

Jim just nodded, a ghost of a smile on his face. He'd given up long ago trying to make sense of just what was so special about that song. All he knew was every time it came on, within a day, if not mere hours, Blair would get a phone call from his old college roommate. He didn't know why it worked that way, just that it did. He'd seen it happen with almost perfect accuracy. Jim reasoned if he could accept animal spirit guides, psychics, and ghosts as a part of his "Sentinel" world, then why not a song that proceeded a phone call from two states away? 

It was some time later that Jim realized Blair had never asked him what caused him to zone in the Safe-Way parking lot. 

* * *

Jim was finishing up the dishes from dinner, when the phone rang. Wiping his hands on the towel he'd hooked into his belt, Jim grabbed up the phone. "Yeah, Ellison." 

A deep Southern drawl greeted him. "So the white knight stands guard at the drawbridge, as usual, I see." 

Jim chuckled. "Melodramatic as ever, Garland. How's tricks?" 

"Ah, the usual. I can't complain. Well, I could. But if I did, no one would bother listening. Is the boy genius at home?" 

Blair had heard the phone ring and was bounding out of his room. "Is that Tim? Gimme." 

With a grin, Jim surrendered the phone, then removed himself to the couch settling in for a the evening, knowing full well how long those two could carry on a conversation. //Oh well. At least there's a Jags game on tonight.// He flipped on the television, turned down the volume, and dialed up his hearing, thinking to give Blair some privacy. It didn't occur to him that he'd be able to overhear their conversation. 

Blair had retreated to his bedroom, but left the French doors open. "Hey, Major T! How's it hanging!" 

"Short, shriveled, and to the left. But thanks for asking, dude." Tim chuckled. "So, it's Detective Sandburg now is it? Weird, man. I always knew you were a dick. But you just had to go and make it all official, huh?" 

Blair laughed. "You know me man...gotta have the credentials to go with the title!" 

Swearing to himself that he was _over_ the surge of petty jealousy that had raised it's head when he'd first learned of Blair's deep affection for his friend, Jim berated himself for eaves-dropping on his partner. But he didn't move, or dial his hearing down either. 

Blair's voice drifted from his room. "You okay, man? You sound kind of down." 

A long sigh punctuated the response. "Yeah. Right as the mail." 

But even to Jim, Tim's cheerful response sounded forced and stilted. //Uh oh. Mistake. Don't go there, Ellison.// Flipping off the TV, Jim shoved himself off the couch, grabbed his gym bag, coat, and keys by the door and left the loft. 

Jim knew that Tim had accepted a job in California and had moved after college, but the two had remained close. Even the distance between them hadn't quelled the jealous spark Jim felt whenever Tim called Blair. 

He drove to the gym, reminding himself that he had no reason to feel jealous, not any more. He'd been plenty jealous at first. And had made an utter ass of himself over it, too. At least until he'd met the man...and his wife...and their newborn daughter. Oh, he'd felt really stupid after that. But still, he'd seen that odd look of regret on Tim's face when he'd placed his daughter in Blair's arms for the first time. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, when, at his wife's suggestion, Jim had taken Tim's camera and snapped a shot of the three of them. 

* * *

Three hours, and a pleasingly exhausting work-out later, Jim opened the door to his apartment. He spotted Blair immediately, sitting on the couch, his head resting on a balled up fist, staring blindly at the television set. Jim set his bag down, dropped his keys into the basket, and crossed over to sit by his friend. 

"Everything okay, Chief?" 

Blair nodded, a concerned frown on his face. "Yeah. I guess so." 

"You guess?" 

Still not looking at him, Blair answered. "Uh huh. Tim's just acting weird. He's like all closed off. Not like his usual self. He told me that the old gang from first floor East Hall is getting together this weekend at the U. He's flying up for it. He wanted to know if I was going. I told him we've got to work all weekend." 

"The Wilbourn stake-out, right?" Jim mentioned the all day and night stake out they were scheduled to cover with Rafe and Brown. It was possible they'd tie it up early, but unlikely. Blair nodded. Jim pressed on. "How'd he take it?" 

"Not well. He was pretty disappointed I couldn't make it. And he sounded so...." Blair trailed off. Shaking himself, he stood. "Sorry, man. But I'm really wiped out. Gonna hit the sack early. Night, Jim." 

"Good night, Chief." Jim frowned at the flickering image on the television screen, wishing he could understand the growing sense of foreboding that had enveloped him. 

* * *

December 4 

Jim shook his head, grinning, at the rhythmic beating vibrating throughout the loft. Only Sandburg would think tribal drums were the perfect accompaniment to decorating the apartment for Christmas. They'd finished the fixing the tree, and hanging other Sentinel friendly greenery around the loft, when Blair had opted for a shower to wash off the "sap" from the evergreen they'd put in front of the living room windows. Later, he slipped into his room to change into some comfortable sweats, leaving Jim fighting back the urge to salivate over his partner. 

Jim closed his eyes, conjuring up the image of Blair, a small towel knotted around his hips loosely, drops of moisture glistening on golden skin and nestled in dusky curling chest hair, breezing past him as he closed the doors to his room. Jim breathed in deeply, opening up his senses. It was nice. The crisp scent of pine, mixed with some of the carefully spread out cinnamon sticks Blair had placed around the loft. And underlying that the unmistakable scent of Blair. Intoxicating. The smells of home...their home...his Guide...his Blair. 

Groaning at the familiar tightening in his groin, Jim dropped his head into his hands. //Oh, shit. I do _not_ need this right now.// 

Jim knew he needed to tell Blair how he felt before he really fucked up and did something that might ruin their relationship. He _thought_ Blair had feelings for him too, but he still wasn't sure. And he refused to just assume his feelings for his partner were returned. //Nope. I _have_ to tell him first. Full disclosure. Isn't that what the circumstances behind Blair's becoming a cop taught you, Ellison? Not to assume Sandburg understands what's going around in that tapioca pudding you call a brain? Yeah...gotta tell Blair...but not now. But when?// 

The ringing of the telephone interrupted Jim's self-depreciation party. "Ellison." 

A woman answered. A woman who sounded like she'd been crying. "Ah...Blair Sandburg, please?" 

"Chief! Phone!" Jim bellowed over the sound of the tribal drums thumping out from behind the closed doors of Blair's room. 

Almost immediately the music stopped, leaving behind a loud silence as a newly cleaned and clothed Blair opened the doors and walked over to the table where Jim sat hunched over a case file, the phone in his hand. "Who is it?" 

"Sherry someone. Working that table leg again, Sandburg?" Jim teased, trying to pull Blair out of the distracted funk he'd fallen into since the night of Tim's call before Thanksgiving. 

Blair only frowned, muttering, "I don't know anyone named Sherry." He took the phone from Jim's outstretched hand, and sat down across from him. "Hello, Blair Sandburg." 

At this close range, it was almost impossible for Jim not to over hear the very distraught woman on the phone. 

"Blair? It's Sherry. Sherry Lunsford. From East Hall. Renee Bullis and I lived across from you and Tim. Remember me?" 

Blair's face brightened considerably, but still held a look of confusion. "Oh, Sherry! Hi! God, it's been ages! How are you?" 

"Uhmm...okay. Look, Blair. I hate that this call couldn't be on better circumstances." 

At the sudden pallor that stole over Blair's face, Jim dialed up his hearing. The wrongness of eavesdropping be damned. Blair stammered out, "Sherry...what's wrong?" 

"Oh, God, Blair. There's just no easy way to say this. It's about Tim." 

Blair became panicked. "What? What's wrong! Tell me!" 

The woman on the other end of the line choked back a sob. "Tim shot himself last night." 

"No...no...this...this can't be happening." Blair's coloring dipped harshly, his breathing was ragged, and his heart-rate jack-knifed through the roof. Jim felt the cold squeeze of dread in his chest at Blair's next question. "Is...is..he okay?" 

Sherry was crying in earnest now. "He died early this morning. God, Blair. I'm so sorry!" 

Blair dropped the phone down with a loud clatter on the table. He lurched unsteadily to his feet, and staggered into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Jim heard the distinct click of the lock sliding into place, then silence. 

"Blair? Blair? Are you still there?" Sherry's voice echoed from the forgotten phone. 

Stunned, Jim scooped up the phone and cleared his throat. "Sherry, this is Detective Jim Ellison. Blair's roommate." 

Jim stayed on the phone with the distraught woman for a few minutes, gathering what details he could, knowing that Blair would have questions he needed the answers to. Unfortunately, there weren't many answers to be gained. 

Sherry had found out about Tim's suicide first hand, since she was the triage nurse in the emergency room when he'd been brought in. Tim was unconscious when they carried him in, and had only awakened once before he died. Sherry told Jim that he'd said something, but she couldn't make out what it was. And then he was gone. She stuck around, long after waiting to see Tim's family, but after a sixteen hour shift, she was exhausted and finally left before they got there. So she didn't know how Tim's wife and children were handling everything. She'd gotten in touch with his other friends the next morning, and had inquired discretely as possible as to why he'd done it. But apparently, there was no note, and he'd not confided in anyone she knew. 

Jim hung up the phone, feeling worn out. He lowered his head into his hands, hating himself for every little twinge of jealousy he'd ever felt regarding Blair's friend. Rubbing at his cheeks, he looked sadly at the closed French doors. His Guide was hurting. The man that he called partner, friend, and maybe one day lover, had holed himself up in his room, with, the look on his face as any indication, his heart torn out. Jim didn't have answers to the questions he knew were coming. Not a damn thing he could do to ease the pain Blair was suffering. And that thought hurt Jim most of all. 

* * *

December 9 

Having wasted an entire day in court, Jim was exhausted and irritated. He'd been there all day, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, waiting to give testimony that ended up taking all of thirty minutes. He'd kept close to Blair all week...just in case...more so than usual. But Jim's testimony was on an appeals case for some slimeball he'd put away before he and Blair had met, and it was a closed court, since it involved a vicious assault on a minor. So Sandburg had spent the day chained to his desk, catching up on some overdue paperwork. The whole case had turned his stomach four years ago, and just the parts he sat through today made him feel ill all over again. 

Jim punched the "up" button on the elevator with a growl, belatedly noticing the "Out of Service" sign plastered to the front. 

//Oh, perfect. A great capper to an already shitty day.// 

Squashing the urge to deliver a savage kick to the unyielding metal doors, Jim turned and trudged wearily up three flights of stairs, cursing the broken down piece of shit that functioned as an elevator in their building with each step. 

//What a rotten week. Actually, life has pretty much sucked since before Thanksgiving. Starting with the phone call from Tim.// 

Jim didn't hold any animosity towards Blair's deceased friend. If anything, he was hurting too...for Blair. He hadn't known Tim hardly at all, but that didn't matter. Blair knew him, loved him, and was tearing himself apart over his death. Blair wasn't handling Tim's death at all well. 

//No. Strike that. He's not handling it _at all._ // 

Jim had half expected Blair to come totally unglued. But he hadn't. Blair didn't go to the funeral. He didn't contact Tim's wife or his family. Hell, Jim at least expected his partner to grieve. But he hadn't done that either. As long as Jim had known him, Sandburg wasn't one to internalize his emotions. That was Jim's deal. But the death of his friend had really knocked the kid out of his orbit. 

He'd not come out of his room until the morning following the call from Sherry. And when he did, it was almost business as usual. Almost. They went to work, Blair doing his job with his usual attention to detail and the paperwork, but without his usual spark or enthusiasm. That was to be expected, following the death of a close friend. And he was quiet. Extraordinarily quiet, slipping off to his room right after dinner each night, shutting the doors behind him. The silence emanating from behind the closed portals unnerved Jim. But that's not what bothered him the most. 

Never one given to casual touch, Jim had always felt completely comfortable with the frequent affectionate pats, and touches he gave or received from Blair. He was used to always patting his cheeks, laying a hand on his arm, throwing his own over Blair's shoulders, ruffling his curls, and even occasionally grasping his Guide around the waist. What bothered Jim the most was that the casual intimacy they shared stopped, too. 

Since Tim's death, whenever Jim tried to touch his partner, Blair either evaded his grasp or shrugged him off entirely. Never with malice or disgust. Just determinedly moving out of Jim's "personal space." Jim was angered by it at first, but the anger gave way quickly to hurt. Now, he was very concerned, almost to the point of desperation. The chilly, efficient detective left in the wake of Tim's death was _not_ his Blair. And Jim didn't like it. Not one bit. But he didn't know what to do about it either. 

He knew Blair was home already, having spotted the Volvo in it's usual parking slot. Sighing, Jim paused outside of the door to the apartment, keys and unopened mail in hand, and focused on the sounds coming from inside. Christmas music. Legitimate Christmas music. Rustling of paper. The ripping sound of tape being torn off a dispenser. And under that, Blair's heartbeat. Steady...calm...no hint of distress. Jim opened up his sense of smell, automatically searching for any signs of tears that he had really expected to find long before now. But there was only the scent of the pine, cinnamon, and a hint of vanilla and dark chocolate. 

Jim leaned his head against the door. //Sandburg's wrapping presents, and baking. What fresh hell is this? When is he ever going to stop avoiding what happened and deal with it?// Jim smiled gamely. //Get a grip, Ellison. Now you're even starting to _sound_ like Sandburg. And that's a bad thing, how?// 

Resolutely, Jim unlocked the door and eased inside, dropping his keys in the basket, and setting down all but once piece of mail as he went. With one hand, he removed the hated tie from his "court suit," popped the top two buttons on the white dress shirt, and took off his jacket, transferring the small package from hand to hand as he went. Draping the jacket and tie across the back of the couch, he turned to see Blair exactly as he expected he would. Blair sat, legs sprawled, by the Christmas tree, with an almost completely wrapped package nestled snugly between his denim covered thighs, taping down an ornate bow. 

//Oh, to be that package.// Jim thought with a wry grin. 

Watching Blair expertly finish decorating the present, Jim was again glad he'd decided to have Blair's gifts professionally wrapped. Once he'd found out that Blair made extra money during his undergrad years by wrapping gifts at the mall during the Christmas season, Jim vowed there was no way in hell he'd subject himself to the ribbing comments about an "Ellison Special." The kind of package that was done up in the Sunday comics, with a whole roll of tape per gift. 

Blair didn't look up. "Cookies on the counter, man. Help yourself." 

"Don't think I won't." Jim snatched a cookie, biting into it, savoring the burst of dark chocolate over his tongue. He moaned low in his throat. 

Blair's head whipped around, nailing Jim to the floor with his hypnotic cobalt gaze, a ghost of a smile skimming across his face. "I take that to mean you like them?" 

Jim nodded, and shoved the remaining cookie into his mouth, while reaching for another. He waved the piece of mail he hadn't set down at his roommate. Around a mouthful of cookie, Jim mumbled, "Package for you, Chief." 

Blair grinned and turned back to the gift between his legs. Attaching a card, he slid it under the tree. "Under the tree, man. With the rest of the loot." 

Jim crossed half-way into the living room. "Not that kind of package, Darwin." Jim looked down at the plainly wrapped, brown, flat box in his hand, mentally noting the lack of a return address. "At least, I don't think so." He swept his senses over it briefly, checking for anything inside declaring it to be dangerous, before holding it out towards his partner. 

Blair stood, dusted off the backside of his jeans, and moved to take the box from him. Glancing down at the untidy scrawled address, Blair paled, standing motionless. "Oh, God." 

"What is it, Chief?" Jim asked quietly. 

Blair swallowed hard, twice, his voice rough and shaking when he answered. "It...it's from Tim. I'd know his handwriting anywhere." He made no move to open it. 

"You sure?" 

Blair gave a mirthless laugh. "Yeah. I told him once that if I could read his handwriting then I could read the Rosetta Stone. But I was wrong. His handwriting prepared me for yours." The attempt at humor fell flat between the two men. He continued to stare down at the parcel. 

"You gonna open it?" When Blair didn't answer, Jim tried again, sensing his friend's hesitation. "Maybe you should." 

Blair turned to fix Jim with glassy eyes. "You think?" At Jim's nod, Blair took a deep breath and ripped away the brown wrapping, and opened the box. Inside was a smaller flat object, wrapped in Christmas paper, and an envelope. 

Jim eased himself down onto the couch, as his detective instincts raced to the surface. //Uh huh. Here it comes. The missing piece to this puzzle.// 

With shaking fingers, Blair tore open the wrapping paper. From his vantage point on the couch, Jim could easily tell it was a framed photograph. Blair's heartbeat thundered in Jim's ears as Blair stared at the picture in his hands. Without a word, he handed it to his partner. Leaning forward, Jim took it from him, and glanced down. It was the picture Jim had taken of Tim and Blair holding Tim's daughter. But it had been altered. Tim's wife had been completely erased from the photograph, almost as if she'd never been in the shot. Jim felt a prickly burning sensation behind his eyes as he gazed down at the unabashed joy captured on Blair's face as he held the tiny infant, and the echoing delight on the visage of the proud father. 

From a distance, Jim heard the tearing sound of the envelope giving way, and then he could smell the salt of tears. Wrenching his gaze away from the photograph, he looked up at his Guide. Blair stood with his shoulders hunched, as if trying to ward off a blow, one arm clutching at his middle, reading the sheet of paper in his hands, silent tears streaming down his face. 

Part of Jim was relieved that the damn blocking Blair's grief had finally broken. Until Blair threw back his head and _howled_ out in pain. The raw, agonized sound clawed away at Jim. He watched stunned as his young love collapsed to his knees, his arms circling his chest, the letter drifting forgotten to the floor. 

"Blair!" Jim dropped the photograph on the couch and vaulted across the room to sit beside him. Operating on blind instinct, Jim hauled the keening form of his partner into his arms, clutching him tightly against his chest as Blair started to hyperventilate. "Oh, God, Blair! Come on, buddy!" 

"My fault...my fault..." The whispered litany was so quiet that even Jim's Sentinel ears had to strain to pick up what he was saying. 

"What?!" But Blair was too far into his anguish to hear him. With no answer forthcoming, Jim eased back from the distraught man in his arms, just long enough to seize the letter lying beside them on the floor. 

Glancing at it, Jim felt pole-axed when he saw the date. //Good God. He wrote this the night he killed himself.// Then he began to read. 

"Blair, 

I'm sure by now you've heard the story from someone. But I wanted you to hear it from me. I'm not going to try and explain why I felt I had to do what I've done, because for some things, there is no explanation...at least not one that can offer any comfort. 

Just know that I'm sorry this hurt you. I'm not going to get all mushy with this. I've done enough crying in the past four months to last a lifetime. We've had a lot of fun together, a lot of good times, and a lot of good memories. But you still don't really know me. Thanks for those good times, all of the times you've given me some one to talk to, and the few times that you've been able to cheer me up...and believe me, that's a major accomplishment. You've got a good man there, in your detective. Tell him. Please don't make the mistake I've made. He loves you. And coming from someone else who loves you, I'm certain of it. Don't let someone you love, like I _know_ you love Jim, slip away from you out of your own fear of being rejected. 

Just keep in tune to what your heart is telling you. I've found out that most of my best fuck-ups happen when I'm not listening to my heart. I'm not going to say the catchy quote from Shakespeare that we like so much (remember Cassisus and Brutus before battle from Julius Caesar). Because this parting was _not_ well made. Good-byes never are. 

It hurts me to leave you now, because I'll be leaving a part of me behind with you. The memories, the experiences, the friendship, and the love. Huh. And I said I wasn't going to get mushy, too. Oh well. Forget anything depressing I've ever told you. Just cherish the memories. Because our mistakes and memories are all that we really own. And no one can take them from us. I love you, Blair. Tim." 

His own tears falling freely now, Jim dropped the letter, and wrapped his arms even tighter around his Guide. He buried his face in the curls resting in the crook of Blair's shoulders, breathing deeply. "It's not your fault, Blair." 

Coming to himself, Blair pulled back, forcing Jim to look at him. "How can you say that? That letter said he killed himself because of me." 

With a gentle, sad smile, Jim carefully wiped the tears from Blair's cheeks. "No it didn't. All that letter said was that there wasn't a way to explain why he did it. And he loved you....and that I love you...and that you love me, too." Jim paused for a moment. "And I do, you know." 

"You do?" Blair's watery gaze bore deeply into him. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "How?" 

Jim's smile widened slightly. He leaned forward, and gently brushed his lips against Blair's, hesitating there briefly, before pulling back. "Does that answer your question? I _do_ love you, Blair. More than anything." 

Blair stared at him for a moment, then eased out of Jim's embrace, causing Jim a moment of panic. Panic that was quickly squelched as Blair shifted, returning to the circle of Jim's arms, this time facing him, wrapping his legs around Jim's waist, and his arms around Jim's neck. Jim cuddled him close, easing Blair's head down on his shoulder, cupping the Blair's curls with a big hand, and rubbing soothing strokes down his back with the other. 

He had no idea how long they sat that way. Long enough for the sun to completely set, leaving the loft dark, except for the lights on the tree, soft Christmas music playing in the background. Too long for good circulation. But Jim quickly decided that a stiff back and sore hips were definitely worth the warm bundle in his arms. 

A few moments later, Jim could feel Blair start to chuckle. "What's so funny, Chief?" 

Blair snuggled even closer if possible. His reply was muffled against the warm skin of Jim's neck. "There is a Santa." 

"Is this what you wanted for Christmas, Blair? All you had to do was ask." Jim chuckled. "Santa Tim. He gave me the best gift I've ever gotten. I just hate it had to come at so high a price. I'm sorry, Blair. So sorry." 

"Santa Tim..." Blair whispered, then pulled back to look at him. "He was right. I do love you, Jim." 

"I know." Jim gazed lovingly at Blair, then grinned. "A Santa who delivers presents through the US Mail. And it came 'postage due' too. You owe Mrs. Lipshitz thirty-five cents." 

Blair chuckled sadly. "Think she'll take a check?" Then he looked back up into his love's face, his own visage crumpling slightly, fresh tears forming in his eyes. "It hurts, Jim." 

"I know it does, Blair. I know." Jim folded Blair up against him again, Blair surrendering willingly to the warmth of Jim's embrace. Looking over at the lights on the tree, Jim made a silent vow to _not_ make the mistake Tim had made. Never a day would a day go past that Blair would _not_ know just how much Jim loved him. 

//Rest in peace, Tim. And thank you.// 

End. 


End file.
